Peace, Love, and Spider Spray: Mama's Day

It really doesn't get any lazier than this, my friends. I meant to blog this in both spots, but instead I'm just going to send you to the original over on Spider Spray. How's that sound? 

Peace, Love, and Spider Spray: Mama's Day: A sappy Mother’s Day post? Really Jen? Yep. Really. ::clears throat and stands on soapbox:: This day is so many things to me...

Follow-up

So, wow. 

Just…wow. 

I cannot even begin to put into words what your responses have meant to me, Blog Fans. (And not being able to put something into words is sort of a detriment to an aspiring writer, so I’m going to have to work on that.) Allow me to collect my brain and thoughts and such for a moment.

Okay, here goes.

It has been five years since we lost Katie, and by and large, we’ve very much kept to ourselves about it all. A handful of people in my inner circle had some vague idea about what happened, but it just wasn’t something I was very open about. Can you blame me? Not exactly an easy thing to slip into conversation, you know? 

“Hey Jen! Good to see you! This restaurant is so fun and the food looks yummy!”

“You know my sister killed herself, right?”

Yeah, not good. This kind of talk would probably cut down quite a bit on the number of lunch dates I get. And even if I had managed to say this to some poor, unsuspecting friend of mine, I probably would have followed it up quickly with a tremendous amount of embarrassing sobbing, so I opted to keep my mouth shut. I felt like I was doing just fine. I didn’t need help. No counseling or long talks or support groups. Sweep it under the rug and call it a day.

Except that grief doesn’t work that way. It’s a beast with a mind all its own, people. 

So five years, blog fans. Five whole years of insomnia, sudden (often untimely) outbursts of shoulder-shaking sobbing, and really horrific nightmares. Five years of guilt, regrets, and countless rounds of “what if?” Five years of loneliness and isolation and embarrassment.

Then I sat down one day and wrote a short piece about her and posted it for a few folks to read. And they posted it for a few folks to read. And it spread like wildfire, my friends. Over the course of one weekend, THOUSANDS of people read Katie’s story. Roughly 200 of those have chosen to reach out to me in emails, Facebook messages, blog comments, and message board responses. 

I sat there refreshing my computer, over and over and over again, jaw open, tears streaming. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing. Every time I hit that little button my screen re-loaded, and a few more people had read about her. A few more people took time out of their day to read and comment and absorb. A few more people chose to re-post the link, sharing Katie with more, and more, and more folks.

Everything that I had hoped for with this blog post came to fruition. I was reaching people. I was sharing Katie, and making sure people didn’t forget her. I am even told, according to an anonymous comment I received, that I prevented one family from having to go through what we went through in losing Katie (more on that in my next post, Blog Readers.) People were clicking and reading and sharing and preventing. Money was donated in her name. Friends reached out to those in need. 

Above all else, people PROMISED. They commented, emailed, texted, all to tell me that they PROMISE. 

And a weight has been lifted, friends. I have smiled. I have slept (!!!). I feel…peaceful. I haven’t felt peace in five years. I felt it because of you. I felt a bit of my burden removed, a small amount of guilt assuaged, a sense of calm wash over me, and it was all because you chose to read. And share. And promise.

To all who re-posted the link, there is no word I can think of that could appropriately thank you to the depths and magnitude that I would like to thank you. You changed lives, people. Maybe even saved a few. (We can only hope, right?)

The same goes for those of you who commented or contacted me in some way. You told me that I wasn’t wrong to put Katie out there. You told me that her story needed to be told. You told me that people who are suffering tremendously from mental illness or from the loss of a loved one don’t deserve to be shut out and shrugged off. You told me that I wasn’t alone after all.

You told me that even after five years of absence, Katie still has a voice. She still has purpose. She mattered to me and now she matters to you.

I have so much more to say about all this, and so much more to share about my experiences the last few days, but for now my friends, I will sleep. And I will sleep well, because of you. Because you each carry a small piece of her with you now, and that means I don’t have to carry her all alone.

From the bottom of my heart, and with everything I have in me…

Thank you.

**blog look a little different? Aunt Amy requested a brighter background, and what Aunt Amy wants, Aunt Amy gets!**

For Katie

Here’s fair warning. This post is not funny at all. There is no punch line to wait for, no quick wit. No sarcasm or satire here. Feel free to leave now if you want, but really, I hope you stay and read.

Tomorrow is April 28, 2012, which means it has been exactly five years to the day since my baby sister, Katie, took her own life. She was 19 years old. For the sake of my family’s privacy, among other things, I will not be delving into the details of what happened that year leading up to her death. The “why” and “how” isn’t nearly as important as what I’m trying to convey here today. I want her to be remembered, first and foremost. She is definitely worth remembering. I also wish to raise awareness with your help, blog fans (no money required, I promise). We need to talk about suicide, folks, no matter how un-glamorous it might be.

She was absolute trouble right from the start, my sister. She was without a doubt the most stand-out character in our little family sitcom. Out of four siblings she was the only brunette, the shortest by a landslide (not even clearing 5ft), and certainly the loudest of our bunch. She had a machine-gun style laugh that would get anyone laughing right alongside her (although no one laughed harder at her jokes than she did herself.) If I had to pick any one family member early on who I would have thought to be resilient against all odds, stronger than all the rest, and just stubborn enough to make it through anything, I would’ve picked Katie.

When she was little, she told the folks at daycare that she was highly allergic to bread so they wouldn’t make her eat it, even though she wasn’t. She just didn’t care for the taste. When I insisted we draw a line down the center of our shared bedroom to divide things up, she outsmarted me and chose the side with the door that provided access to the bathroom. (The dividing line was un-drawn within the hour.) When my parents discovered a cigarette burn on the driver’s seat of her car while she was in high school, she told them she left her window down and someone must have flicked a lit cigarette into her car to cause the burn. She didn’t quite have an explanation for the lighter they found in the glove box, but you still had to give her points for creativity. To hear her tell a joke was a riot – not because the joke was usually very funny, but because more often than not, she couldn’t make it halfway through without laughing so hard you thought she was going to pass out. The kid was a hoot. Instead of washing her clothes like a normal person, she would just buy new ones (and she thought it was hilarious if you called her out on that kind of stuff.) She was terrified of thunderstorms, and couldn’t fall asleep without a ceiling fan running. (I hated sharing a room with her growing up – always had to have the fan AND the closet light on at bed time – grrrr!) She was a force to be reckoned with, for sure. But now that she’s gone, all she can be is a laundry list of memories for me. I just don’t see how that’s fair.

She died after I became engaged to Hubs, but before our wedding, so she never saw us get married. In place of my sister standing by my side at the altar, I had a vase of red roses (her favorite) placed on a fireplace hearth behind us. She did, however, get to see the engagement ring before Hubs proposed. I still can’t believe she kept that secret so well. I had no idea she knew. 

She hasn’t been into this house because we bought it after she was already gone. (Katie would have loved that it came stock with a mirror on the ceiling in the master bedroom.) She didn’t get to make any sarcastic comments when I waddled around at 9 months pregnant looking like a manatee in a striped shirt, and she never had the chance to hold Bean after his birth. She doesn’t even know there is a Bean. (It kills me that Bean won’t ever know Aunt Katie. How can I possibly get him to understand how ridiculous and amazing she was?) My brother bought a house and my other sister bought a husband (married. I mean she married a husband. Freudian slip.) and Katie wasn’t there for any of it. She never, ever knew anything past the age of 19. 

Suicide holds a dangerous amount of social stigma – if we can’t talk about it, how can we prevent it? We don’t expect a cancer patient to suffer in silence or simply “get over it”, so why do people suffering from depression or mental illness get shut out? A surgery scar from having a tumor removed is usually seen as a badge of courage, a battle won. A scar on the inside of your wrist? Usually seen as shameful and abhorrent. How can we fight to save the people we love if we aren’t even allowed to talk about what’s killing them? How can we make sure no one else loses their favorite sarcasm-spewing, machine gun-laughing, almost too short to see over the steering wheel, loud and whacky brunette?

I’m not asking for money, my dear readers. I don’t need you to sponsor my walk or buy a t-shirt or whatever. Just educate yourself. Be aware. Promise me that if you ever even think you’ve found yourself in the presence of someone who needs help you will fight tooth and nail to get it for them. You will listen to them. You will believe them. 

Promise. 

Promise me you’ll love them and comfort them and do everything in your power to let them know you care. That you’re going to fight the fight with them. That you absolutely, positively won’t give up on them or shut them out because what they’re going through isn’t trendy or well understood or easy to talk about. Promise me. 

Promise Katie. 

Leave me a comment, and tell me you promise.

Please visit some of the links below if you can find the time. Just give this five minutes. After all, that’s the same number of years I’ve been without my baby sister. 

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

I particularly like that this organization supports not only general suicide prevention and awareness, but these two causes specifically: anti-bullying, and suicide prevention and crisis intervention for our veterans.

http://helpguide.org/mental/suicide_prevention.htm

Some really fantastic tips on recognizing suicide risk in others, and what to do or say to help. 

http://www.thetrevorproject.org/

Love this organization, as it specifically aims to help teens and adolescents. From their website –

The Trevor Project is the leading national organization providing crisis intervention and suicide prevention services to lesbian, gay, bisexual, transgender, and questioning youth.

Katie, we love you and miss you every. Single. Day. I still reach for my phone sometimes to call you when something funny or ridiculous happens. (And it tears me apart when I realize I can’t.) Because of you, I can’t bring myself to change the channel if it happens to land on a Golden Girls rerun. Also thanks to you, I live under the belief that hot dogs and bologna are two completely separate food groups, and that the phrase “sistah from the same mistah” is an acceptable way to address a sibling. You’re still the only person who has ever written me a note that included the phrase “Oy Vey”. I hope Bean gets your embarrassing laugh, Katie. At least it would make it easier to find him in a crowd, right?

**My current writing project: a book for Katie. Shortly before she passed, I found a piece of paper where she had written a list entitled “Things to do before I die”, or something to that effect. On this list, among other things, she wrote that she wanted to be a published author, either for her poetry or her short stories. (She also wrote song lyrics and occasionally dabbled in some really terrible art, but that is neither here nor there.) It is an extremely long road from ideation to publication, my friends, but I’m confident I’ll make it. And when I do I intend to accent my own words with snippets of her writing so that finally, after all these years, she’ll reach her goal. She’ll be a published author. Any lucky vibes you have to spare would be greatly appreciated here, blog fans. I absolutely have to make this happen.**

Game Time

Let's play a little game, shall we? 

I tell you something I said, and you have to guess if I said it to one of these:

 

Babby, in her natural state

 

Flabby, with a little tongue action

 

Shabby looking, well, pretty shabby

Or to this:

 

Calm down, Blog Fans. That's just mud. 

And here we go!

1. Please don't bite my foot!

2. Don't scoot your butt on the carpet.

3. Stop licking the kitchen floor.

4. You honestly just threw up on my clean sheets?

5. Please don't bring dead bugs in to play with...or lives ones, for that matter!

6. How did you get avocado smeared down your back??

7. Stay out of the toilet water!

8. If that didn't smell so offensive, it might be slightly impressive.

9. Why are you licking the wall?

10. It's trash day. Please go set yourself at the curb and wait for pick-up.

***Ready to check your answers and see how well you did?*** 

1. Bean

2. Flabby

3. All four of them

4. Shabby multiple times, Bean once or twice

5. Shabby and Babby

6. Shabby (I'll give you one guess as to how the avocado got there)

7. Bean. The dogs know better than that.

8. Bean

9. Bean, Shabby, and Babby

10. All four, almost every week.

Your scores: 

If you got fewer than five correct, you get no prize.

If you got between five and seven correct, no prize.

However, if you got eight or more answers correct, you still get no prize. What do you think I'm running here? Some sort of charity? Geeze.

More MOTY

Never fear, blog fans. I go to great lengths on a continuous basis to ensure no one is ever able to steal my Mother of the Year title away from me. I worked hard for that crown, you know. (As always, feel free to add your M(or F)OTY moments in the comments!)


* Bean has had potato chips. Three times this week. All three times it was to stop a tantrum. 


* He mostly only wears his fancy schmancy  Stride Rite shoes when we're out in public. Actual walking around outside in the mud/ grass/ leaves/ who knows what is usually done  barefoot around here. By the time he gets to high school, he should be able to run track barefoot for as tough as the bottoms of his feet will be.


* Hubs: "Why are you trying to feed him? He's obviously done with his dinner. Stop shoving food in the poor kid's face."
Me: "Because, honestly, if I stop feeding him he'll want out of his highchair. And if he's out of his highchair, I'll have to deal with him. And nobody wants that."
Hubs: "Nice. Real nice, Jen."

* I use two sippy cups each day - one for milk and one for water. When not in use, they go back into the fridge until the next meal or snack time, and are washed each night. Hubs had to call me out when it was discovered that a particular sippy cup was actually on day 2 (or so) of fridge rotation. Oops.


* "Bean what is in your mouth?! Come here! Well, never mind. You swallowed it. Guess we'll figure out what it was in the next day or so."


* I'm 99% certain that at least one obscenity left Bean's mouth today. I'm 110% certain he picked it up from me. It also happens to be one of the more offensive swear words one can use. Good job, mommy!


* While reading him his nursery rhymes book the other night, I couldn't help but notice the fairly inappropriate/ outdated/ racist overtones of some of the classics out there. A good mother would either just avoid them altogether or at least try not to read too much into it, for fear of taking the fun out of the story/ rhyme. This mother winds up on a 25 minute tangent explaining to her toddler that three grown adults should really never share a bath tub together (Rub a dub dub, anyone?). I may also have touched on the fact that Baa Baa Black Sheep would not, in this day and age, have a "master" to whom he had to give his wool. Don't even get me started on the obviously large amount of LSD it must take to understand "Hey Diddle Diddle" in all its glory. The dish and spoon got up to run away together? Just say no, Bean. Just say no.


* Me: "We should really consider finding a church to go to every Sunday."
Hubs: "Really? What's your sudden motivation?"
Me: "Are you serious? Free daycare in the church nursery. Every Sunday we'll get a few hours without Bean, and we don't even have to pay for it. And Wednesday nights too, depending on the church."
Hubs: "Please tell me you're at least going to stay for the services, then."
Me: "Is that required or something?"


Don't lie, blog stalkers. You deserve a MOTY crown too. Yours just isn't as sparkly as mine.

Dirty Little Secret

If I’ve said it once, I’ve said it a thousand times. This blog is supposed to by my no-holds-barred, safe to write freely, able to voice what I want, honest to goodness place to write. So why have I been holding onto this dirty little secret? Maybe because I know how much other mamas judge me for it. Maybe because I feel like it’s my weakest point as a parent. Maybe because it is honestly one of our biggest points of contention, an incredible stress, and it isn’t exactly something I’m proud of.

Our son will be 16 months old this month, and he doesn’t sleep through the night. You know those signs that display safety stats in factories? “43 days since our last accident!” Yeah, I’m getting something similar for our house. “X Days in a row Bean has slept through the night!” Except that more often than not, that sign would display a big fat jerky zero. 

The low down: Bean slept only on either me or Hubs for the first four weeks of life. There was just no other way. Bouncy seat, car seat, swing, crib, blah, blah, blah. No deal. Swaddled, un-swaddled, white noise, total silence, total dark, a little light on, nothing. He would not sleep on his back and off of us, so we went with it. At about the one month mark we decided to give in and, against all SIDS warnings out there, we put him to sleep on his tummy in his own crib. And he took to it like a moth to a flame my friends. To this day, this boy is a tummy sleeper. It may not be the “right way”, but it was our only way. 

By 8 weeks old he was sleeping through the night, all on his own. No sleep training at all on our part (we’ve always chosen to be baby-lead), he just stopped needing us in the middle of the night. We were thrilled! We were happier, had more energy, and were finding time to connect as a couple again (which was much harder to do after Bean’s birth than I could have expected.) Sleep can make or break a household, and at this point in time, we were on cloud nine. This baby thing wasn’t half bad after all.

Then the ear infections started. The whole story there is a saga for another day (really, I could take up multiple posts just on that mess alone) but let me give you the abridged version. Bean had his first ear infection at about 7 or 8 months old. From there, we fought our way through more than 5 more ear infections, one nasty cold, plenty of teething, two stomach viruses (or reactions to his many, many antibiotics. We still can’t be totally sure, unfortunately.), and some fancy schmancy Hand, Foot, and Mouth disease. We broke away from our pediatrician’s advice in February and had tubes surgically placed in B’s ears (hopefully curing him of all further infections.) However, this meant that B, with very very few exceptions, had not slept through the night from about 7 months old, until his surgery at 13 months old. We were freaking tired. It doesn’t matter if your child has legitimate reasons for being up all night, sleep deprivation sucks either way. We knew logically that it wasn’t Bean’s fault, that he was in pain/ too snotty to breathe/ his head throbbed from teething/ his head throbbed from ear fluid build-up… but logic means almost nothing when you are that exhausted. 

I envied my friends whose babies were only ever up for the occasional illness or two-night spell of teething. I felt like I was doing something wrong when people (including my asinine pediatrician) suggested that we just let him cry it out, despite the fact that he had legitimate medical reasons to be up at night. I knew that without proper sleep his development (and even his growth) could be delayed. I hated all the meds we were pumping into his little body, but it was either pain medicine and antibiotics or no hope of any sleep at all. 

At the time his tubes were placed, his molars had begun to break through, so although we got a couple of nights in a row right after surgery, it didn’t last long. As the molars continued to come in, all four canine teeth decided to make their debut, and that’s where we currently stand. One more @#!@&* canine tooth left to break gum, and then, hopefully before the 17 month mark, we’ll have our chance at sleep.

I know not all babies have disrupted sleep with teething, but mine does. Not all babies even lose sleep while ill, but mine does. My child will lose sleep if over-stimulated, over-tired, too thirsty, in pain… the list goes on. Part of this is attributed to the fact that he’s just a high maintenance kiddo (also a saga for another day.) Part of this is totally legit from months and months of painful ear drum pressure, scary high fevers (104+) and an exhausted little body trying to fight infection after infection. I know logically that we did nothing to bring on these infections. (Per multiple doctors and all of my reading, Bean’s Eustachian tubes are just genetically predisposed to this sort of thing, and nothing other than surgery would have helped). I know logically that no amount of sleep training or crying or whatever would make a difference based on the kind of kid he is and what he’s been up against. But that doesn’t mean I don’t feel like a failure. That doesn’t mean that I don’t get totally frustrated at 3am and want to break down sobbing because my 30lb toddler can run, play, feed himself, turn off our TV in the middle of an awesome show, call 911 from my locked cell phone (another story for another day) and even hold a piece of sidewalk chalk, but he can’t. Freaking. Sleep.

 I know it affects my kid. I know it affects my mood. I know it affects my marriage, my health, the kind of parent I am, and everything in between. Failing at sleep means failure at so many levels, I don’t even know where to begin. Feeling like a failure, by the way, doesn’t actually feel all that groovy. I know. Shocking.

I’m hopeful the light at the end of the tunnel is just around this bend. I know we’ll still have nights of illness and bad dreams and whatnot to come, causing bouts of interrupted sleep and cranky parents. I’m just hoping, wishing, cashing in all my good Karma, that someday soon we start getting more nights of sleep than nights of crying, screaming, painful sleep deprivation. I’m hoping that soon, my little safety sign will read “5 Nights in a Row Bean Has Slept Through the Night!” 

Actually, at this point, I’d even take two nights in a row.

Okay, blog fans. Fess up. What are your dirty little secrets? What do you feel you have to keep to yourself? Tell your favorite Jen.  She's a good listener. Promise.

Quotable Quotes

I started to write a little ditty about our last several days here in Casa de The Jen, and then I realized it would be much more fun to view our goings on through a series of quotes. So that's what I did instead. Enjoy.


::Bean acting like a gnarly little toddler monster.::

Hubs: What is wrong with that child??
Me: Either teething or demonic possession. Since I'm not sure which, I gave him Orajel and a sippy cup full of Holy water just to cover all my bases.
Hubs: Good thinking.


Hubs: His shoes are too small you know.
Me: No, they're not. He'll wear these until he has the part-time job to cover a jaunt to Stride Rite.
Hubs: Seriously. Those shoes are leaving indentations in his feet.
Me: It's getting warm out, and he retains water below the ankle. I'll tell him to keep his feet elevated for a while.
Hubs: (Shoots me a dirty look)
Me: Okay, fine. I'll spend the $4,503 at Stride Rite. But when that does nothing to solve it, will you agree to look into the whole water retention/ too much salt theory?


Me: Good news! Bean is learning to drink out of a regular cup all by himself!
Hubs: That's great! When did you start practicing that with him?
Me: Oh, um, he actually just taught himself by drinking the water out of his water table in the backyard.
Hubs: You mean the one full of bugs and dirt and leaves?
Me: Does he have another water table? Then I guess that's the one. 
Hubs: (Another dirty look.)
Me: So, yay for milestones, right? Does it make it any better at all that he first started learning the cup thing while drinking his own bath water? No? Hey look! I made cupcakes!


Me: Bean! Do not go all Mike Tyson on that doggy!
Hubs: Do you honestly think he understood that reference?
Me: Fine. Bean, do not bite the dog's ear off no matter how much publicity might ensue!
Hubs: Much better.


Me: Bean, please remember this specific temper tantrum, because in several years when you are asking why you don't have any little brothers or sisters, I will want to refer you back to this as a point of reference.


Me: Bean, you are my all-time favorite baby. Do you know that? Give mommy kisses (make kiss face and lean in)
Bean: Burps up his bean burrito from lunch in my face, with my mouth right next to his.
Me: touche, Bean Bean. Touche.

The Ridiculous

My absolute favorite things about Bean, without a shadow of a doubt, are the ridiculous things. I love absurdity in almost any form, and when you take a healthy dose of absurdity and add it to a heaping helping of my main man…well, folks. That’s just about perfection to me. His major milestones were amazing, don’t misunderstand. I cannot possibly forget his first, wobbly steps, watching him learn to crawl and climb and wiggle, and even the first time he held up a toy in his tiny, chubby fist. Milestones can be magic too. But the ridiculous things? These are the things I know I’ll really hold on to as time flies by. These are the things that just…count. You know? These are the things I cross my fingers and hope beyond hope that Bean remembers about his life when he’s older.

~ The Cart Hug. While pushing Bean down the aisles of a grocery store he will occasionally reach out for me and pull me close to him. I, of course, oblige and lean in and he gives me the greatest, biggest, most amazing little hug you could ever hope to get. From the front seat of a shopping cart. I don’t care if we’re backing up traffic in frozen foods. I don’t care how many people are watching and thinking I’ve lost my mind. My son just had a moment, totally unprompted, where he decided he just wanted to hug his mama. Not a normal hug, though. A ridiculous hug, from the seat of the shopping cart. This is definitely my new favorite hug. Hands down. And dare I say, I think this serves as proof that Bean has a bit of mama’s ridiculous gene himself.

~ A sunset dance, in the parking lot of Target. I don’t quite remember what prompted it, to be honest. We had just finished another round of Target shopping, Bean and me, and were unloading our wares into the car when it struck. The sudden and ridiculous need to dance. I picked him up out of the cart and we slow danced while I sang “You Are My Sunshine” about 47 times in a row. The sun was setting so I paused a moment to show him the beautiful bright pink sky that had been watching our dance, then gave him one more ridiculous twirl before, reluctantly, loading him into the car. Stares from strangers. Bedtime fast approaching. None of it was going to put a cramp in our style that night. No way mister.

~ Diddy Kisses and Hugs. Hubs will get down on the floor and call Bean over for a “Diddy Kiss” or a “Diddy Hug” and the result is always completely, ridiculously, amazing. Bean gets giddy as he scurries over to love on his Daddy, who happens to be one of his absolute most favorite people in the world. Bean even makes a game out of it at bedtime, giving Daddy kisses and hugs and cuddles while silly old Mama tries to do things like put on jammies and get him to sleep. Mama doesn’t get kisses while Daddy’s around, you know. And don’t you know Bean just laughs and giggles and squeals at how funny it is that mama wants a kiss, and he gives it away to Daddy instead. Watching Bean dive into Hubs’ open arms is just plain wonderful. To know that your two favorite people on Earth love each other that much…it just makes me feel all warm and fuzzy and ridiculous inside.

~ Every time I walk outside into our backyard I see it. The ridiculousness. It’s just everywhere. A cooler I left in the sun to dry out is somehow filled with dandelion flowers, carefully and lovingly picked by clumsy, chubby, toddler hands. A sippy cup sits at the bottom of a flower pot for safe keeping. Big giant kiss marks on the sliding glass door. A kiddo who has stripped off his own diaper and is chasing the dog around the yard for a ridiculous, hilarious hug. A small boy, barely knee-high, yelling ridiculous, unintelligible things at his doggies every time they bark. The yard is one of our favorite ridiculous places.

~ Ridiculous, unwavering, totally boundless curiosity. It’s extraordinary, to tell you the truth. He has to learn everything and try it all himself and explore every single thing all the time. It is ridiculously exhausting and, at the same time, ridiculously beautiful to watch. We get out of the car at home and he has to go touch the light on the garage sensor. When the Tupperware falls out of the cabinet he cannot rest until he has tried every possible combination of lids and bowls. He could pet the dog’s ear for 45 straight minutes, switching hands back and forth, trying to pet it forwards and backwards and every way in between. He has to be the one to turn off his light switch every night on the way to his crib because otherwise, bedtime is completely ruined. His demands are ridiculous, and that tells me they’re all his very own creations. Ridiculously ridiculous. 

He is just perfection, that Bean. And by perfection, of course I mean Ridiculous. With a capital “R”. It doesn’t take but a minute, you know. It doesn’t have to be fancy or meticulously planned or even make much sense at all. But your child will eat it up, always coming back for seconds or thirds or even fourths. It’s good for the soul and the mind and the entire darn universe. The ridiculous is what it’s all about around here. Promise you’ll have a ridiculous moment of your own today, blog readers. Bonus points if you share a little bit of the ridiculousness with me back here. It can be ridiculously addicting.

Lightbulb Moment

Ever have those? Something brilliant comes flying into your head at a totally random moment? Like when you're in the shower or driving in traffic or, um, cuddling with your significant other (or cuddling with someone else entirely. Who am I to judge?) I had one of those moments yesterday while filing my toenails, and after talking to a friend today, it confirms it. My idea is brilliant.


I want YOU, blog fans, to write to me about your lives. Specifically, I want to hear all the things you can't vent about on your own. Maybe your mother-in-law stalks your Facebook feed so you can't vent about her always leaving your toilet seat up. (What the hell?) Perhaps you have something to get off your chest about your husband who, after deciding it was totally kosher to leave the baby in the car while he ran into Goody Goody Liquor, has just been declared as child savvy as a fruit bat. Maybe you have something to confess about your own parenting and you just don't have another outlet. I'm serious. I want to provide that outlet. No questions asked. Here's the deal:


I was speaking to a super awesome mama friend of mine a while back, and throughout the course of our conversation it became quite clear to me that she had very few outlets through which to vent her motherly frustrations. Those in her inner circle might judge her for, say, having the nerve to not love every stinkin' minute of motherhood. She didn't dare bitch in a public forum (like Facebook) about her exhaustion (both mental and physical) because that would be too negative and wouldn't accurately portray how grateful she is for her family. She felt like she wasn't allowed to convey all the craziness that her job as a mama entails because she didn't have a safe place to unload all of it. My heart broke for her. (Jen has a heart?!) Seriously. I felt for her.

Mamas (and daddies) need an outlet. This job is tough stuff, my friends. If a waitress or a lawyer or a hooker or a garbageman is allowed to go home at the end of a tough day and complain about how crummy his shift was, why can't us parents do the same thing about our jobs? It's okay to complain. It's okay to vent. It's okay to piss and moan and bitch about how much this job can suck, and you know what? It doesn't mean you aren't good at it. It doesn't mean you don't love your kiddo. It means you are human, and this gig is taxing, to say the least. Shouldn't the most important job in the world also be the most challenging? And if so, shouldn't the most challenging thing you'll ever do in your life come with at least a few free passes to complain and let off steam?


I get wanting to be anonymous. I get putting on a brave face. I understand not wanting to be judged for feeling the way you feel about your life/ kids/ marriage/ etc. It isn't fair, but it's true. Your Facebook status is being judged. Someone at the park is dissecting every word you have to say about your little ones. Your play group/ library time/ music class/ baby palm reading group has at least one or two bums sitting there waiting for you to complain about your baby so they can pounce on your for being so ungrateful. So negative. So....whatever.


Not here, ladies and gents. I come here and vent at will. I say what I want with only a mild regard for what others might think (I am only human, after all.) You should be afforded to same opportunity. So send it to me. The good. The bad. The ugly. (Especially the Ugly.) I swear I will keep you anonymous. Whatever your vent/ gripe/ funny or sad story is to tell, I will tell it here. It will get it off your chest. It will prove cathartic. It will be hilarious for you to jump on a blog and see that story about that stupid thing your mother/ husband/ wife/ uncle/ babysitter did the other day and know that no one will ever connect it to you. But it's out there. And you feel better. And you have been granted your inalienable right to complain, like any good parent should. A Post Secret for parenting, if you will. 

Send it to PeaceLoveAndSpiderSpray at Gmail dot com

Feel free to sign it, or remain anonymous. Send it from an account I recognize, or an account no one even knows you have. I will get your story out there (with my own fancy little Jen-like spin on it, of course.) I don't make a nickel off this blog (as of yet, anyway) so it's not like I gain anything from telling what you need told. I just know how important it is for a parent to have a good outlet. Some stories are too funny to keep to yourselves. Some burdens are just too heavy to bear alone. Sometimes you just need to let it all out. 


Let me have it. I can handle it. Promise.


And...go!

Weekend Wrap-up

How was everyone's weekend, blog fans? Ours was decidedly lame, which is something we're getting used to around here. No rockin' party for St. Patrick's Day. No green beer (or beer of any color for that matter.) No keg-stands or toga parties to be had, folks. (I never was cool enough, by the way, to get invited to the toga parties in high school. Were you? I was always so bummed. I mean, a high school party is okay, but a party with a bunch of toga-clad people = awesomeness. Anywho...)


As I was saying, super low-key at Casa de The Jen. A baby cutting eight teeth at once (yes. Eight. Karma is a biatch.) means we were pretty well housebound the last few days. Not because that sort of thing is contagious, but because cutting teeth causes The Bean to resemble something straight out of Paranormal Activity. You aren't ever totally sure what you just witnessed, but you know darn well you'll be sleeping with the lights on for at least the next three days. Know what I mean? Thanks to Bean's "new" normal behavior (i.e. toddlerhood), even on a good day lately I'm hesitant to leave the house with him unless I have packed some tranquilizer darts strong enough to take down a charging wildebeest. You add in some seriously heinous teething and forget it. We're on lock-down, with the dogs standing guard at all entrances and exits to be sure Bean doesn't get out and mix with the general population. We armed ourselves with mini frozen waffles, Orajel, and a steady rotation of ice cold, wet washcloths and that's all she wrote. A whole weekend eaten up by one unpleasant, teething, baby monster.


While on lock-down, however, I had plenty of time to think about all the important things in life, and how so many things just don't make any sense at all. Please take a moment to step into the head of Jen, and see what I had whirling around in the ol' brain the last two days.


*In The Little Mermaid, Ariel is supposed to be 16. Um, what the hell is a 16 year old doing running (swimming?) around all day wearing nothing but two tiny seashells to cover her mer-nipples? Furthermore, why on earth is the father happy that she winds up married at the end of the movie? She's 16, people! She hasn't even graduated from underwater high school yet. In fact, now that I mention it, I don't think she was even attending school in the first place. Sebastian was wrong. It isn't all better Under the Sea. It's all one big fat saltwatery episode of "16 and Pregnant".


*The Orajel package says not to use it more than 4 times per day. Okay, what if I need to apply it to, say, 6 different teeth at once? Am I already over the allotted number of uses for the day? What if I pick only four of the teeth, and then it turns out I picked the wrong four? More importantly, why do I always forget I just applied Orajel to Bean's mouth, and inevitably stick my finger in my own mouth, numbing up my lips and/or tongue for at least fifteen minutes?


*Back to beloved children's characters for a moment - I had no idea growing up that Pretty Woman was a hooker. (I know this isn't technically a children's movie, but I watched it as a child so to me at least, it is a classic children's film.) Seriously. I didn't understand the scene where Richard Gere refers to Julia's "office", and then Julia starts laughing. Why is it so funny that a woman would have an office? I was pretty sure Richard Gere was being sexist and that he just felt like Julia Roberts shouldn't be working outside the home or something. Guess I was off on that just a lil' bit, huh?

*Why did it take me until B was almost 15 months old to think to feed him spinach, but I made sure he'd tried french fries and ice cream about six months earlier?


*A baby Snuggie would be hilarious. Plus, tripping over the front of the thing would probably slow the little beast down, you know?


Okay folks. I'm off to bed. This weekend full of spending time with my child and being his parent has me wiped out. I'll see you back here later this week for some...wait for it...product reviews! Woohoo!

For the Dads

I ran across this post today from another blog, and I was hooked. It spoke to a topic about which I am incredibly passionate - the need for dads to wake up and realize what an incredible impact they can have on their children, good or bad. This man speaks to the fact that you can quite literally change and shape your child's future with the choices you make as a dad. He says that it's not only okay for dads to cuddle and kiss and love on their kiddos, but it is in fact quite necessary. 


I sat down multiple times trying to write a post about this very thing, and have yet to come up with anything quite as eloquent as this, so on this topic for now, I'm directing you to his blog. This cannot be ignored. It must be discussed. Dads are NOT background noise in their children's lives - they share an equal part of the main event. Dads are too damned important to be taken lightly. We need good dads out there, and I think this starts by driving home the following point with dads: you matter. Your child hears you. Maybe more importantly, he sees you. Every single day. Whatever you spend your time doing from 9-5 at some office is not half as important as what you spend your time doing during bath time. Or story time. The most extraordinary parts of your child's upbringing can very well occur sometime between sitting down to eat dinner and zipping up footed pajamas at bed time. Why would you want to be absent for that? Show up. Be involved. Do NOT defer to mom because it's easier or because she's trying to push you out of the way. You are in this too. 


I cannot begin to express how grateful I am that my son has a strong man in his life. A man who shows him every single day what matters - his family. Bean sees his dad open doors for mama, but also people we've never even met.. Bean watches his dad offer to run a load of dishes when mom is wiped out. Bean knows that bath time with dad can be just as fun as it is with mom (usually better!) Bean knows that hugs and kisses and cuddles aren't relegated to mama. Bean hears his dad say "I love you" no less than a thousand times per week. And I can already tell, at barely more than a year spent on this planet, Bean knows that if he's ever sad, or scared, or hurt, or unsure of himself, he will always find Daddy's arms open and waiting. This, my friends, is pure gold.

MOTY

As my writing unquestionably takes on a sort of condescending quality from time to time, it’s no wonder that people feel I’m sitting here on my shiny pedestal, admonishing others for their subpar behavior, and patting myself on the back for my MOTY-esque perfection. (That’s Mother of the Year, for all you non-interweb addicts.) This could not be farther from the truth. If and when I refer to myself as MOTY it is, I assure you, only in jest. I do things on a daily basis that in hindsight always make me cringe. On many, many, many occasions I have found myself extremely grateful no one was around to see something stupid I did or hear something stupid that was said. Every single day I cross my fingers and hope that Bean has yet to reach the age where he’ll actually begin to remember the things I do day in and day out. If anything, this blog actually serves as a sort of refuge for all of us non-MOTY candidates, myself being the ring leader of this bunch of misfits, to be sure.

As proof of my well-deserved nomination into the MOTY Hall of Fame, allow me to provide you with some fodder from our daily goings on around here.

* Completely out of love and as a sign of affection (really. I swear.) I oftentimes refer to Bean as “Bad Baby.” It’s always “Bad Baby want a snack?” or “Bad Baby, where did you get those batteries from??” This is all fun and games, of course, until the little turd starts to repeat what I say. The other day it was “Bad Baby, why is there a full sippy cup and a magnet in the drawer below the oven?” Next thing I know, a sweet chubby little face is staring up at me, opens his mouth, and in a questioning tone asks “Baah Bay?” Crap. He’s going to repeat “bad baby” in public, and people are going to think I’m a monster. Perfect. 

* We ran out of most of the Bean-friendly foods the other day, and it was lunch time. We could have gone to the store and picked up something wholesome, sure. Or we could have gone to Taco Bueno and split a bag of bean burritos. I’ll let you guess which one of those options this MOTY chose.

*There is a red streak on the couch cushion from a particularly exhausting Tylenol-related struggle the other night. Any day now I’ll mosey on over there and try to clean it off.

*My number one reason for agreeing with extended rear-facing car seats is simple: when your child is facing the back of the car, he can’t see you consume your delicious cinnamon swirl coffee cake and iced vanilla latte, all the while wondering when his lazy mother is going to feed him his own breakfast.

*However, as beneficial as I felt rear-facing was, (for both safety and Starbucks-related reasons), Bean went forward facing at about a year. Something about having to jam my elbow into his chest to get him to cooperate and get buckled in for every single car trip just stop being funny, and once turned forward facing, those fights stopped. 


::This is probably a good place to post this link and remind everyone that, although I am clearly a terrible parent and allow my child to be forward facing, current recommendations state you should leave your kid to face the trunk until two years old. There. Now you can't sue me.::

 Still not convinced I’m MOTY material? Let’s see…

*One of his first five table foods was a French fry.

*It’s not a matter of “if” he will repeat an embarrassing swear word in public, it’s more a matter of “when” and “how offensive a word will he choose?”

*He spent the better part of a whole week being bathed in a bathtub with a pretty obvious grunge ring because I couldn’t find the time to clean it. A grunge ring that slightly resembled a mix of motor oil and Crisco. No idea where it came from, but it didn’t seem to ruin any of his bath time fun. (Including, of course, drinking some of his own bath water.)

*I’ve given serious thought to getting him one of those dog toys where the dog has to work really hard to get the snack out, leading to hours of entertainment. Or, in the case of a toddler, at least a half hour of me getting something done while Bean teams up with one of our pups to try to figure out how to get his Elmo crackers out. Perhaps a trip to Petsmart is in order?

*I quite possibly “encouraged” Bean to take a nap he maybe didn’t really need in order to sit here and write this post.

In all seriousness though. I totally embrace my flaws as a mama. And, as long as we’re laying it all out there, I totally dig any mama who is willing to do the same. The mamas I judge (yes, I admit it. I judge.) are the ones who either 1) are completely convinced they are flawless, or 2) don’t know the difference between a harmless fault (cup of vanilla pudding and five Elmo crackers for dinner), and a dangerous fault (strapped into a car with no car seat, left alone in the tub, etc.)

Make me feel better, blog readers. What is one of your favorite MOTY moments from your own life? I promise when your kid is old enough, I will not out you to them. Cross my heart.